


one hundred, and one

by wrenchwench



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: M/M, Merry Christmas, drinks get drunk and mistakes get made, this is fine right??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 20:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13061265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrenchwench/pseuds/wrenchwench
Summary: What happens in Vegas, right? Right.It's all fun and games until you have to get an annulment.





	1. damen sets a bad example

**Author's Note:**

> for participant id # 2!

There was no reception in the club, which was making it really hard to google whether or not loud music could actually cause physical damage. Damen was pretty sure that he could feel his lungs shaking. Was he getting a nosebleed? 

He tested his upper lip with the back of his finger, which admittedly came back damp, but only with sweat. This wasn’t unusual. Damen’s whole body felt unpleasantly moist, the humid air causing even the walls to drip slightly.

“Here,” yelled Nikandros, appearing at Damen’s shoulder holding a tall glass of something pink, “this is yours.”

“Thanks,” Damen replied, equally loudly. He took a sip, and recoiled. It was punishingly sweet, and also felt a little bit like he was getting the skin of his mouth flayed off. Nikandros watched him grimace and rolled his eyes.

“I asked the bartender for something to give someone who’d just been through a breakup. I think she thought I meant a girl, maybe? It came with a little umbrella, but I lost it. Drink it or not, man, it’s up to you, but she put like five shots of alcohol in it, so it’ll get you trashed for sure.”

Damen sipped again. It certainly wasn’t what he’d usually drink. He looked wistfully at the bottle of beer in Nikandros’ hand, and then sighed and tipped back half the glass. The crushed ice crunched pleasantly between his teeth. Best part of the drink, he decided.

“That’s it,” said Nikandros, taking a pull of his beer. “Get drunk. Forget about shitty blondes and shittier brothers. Just be happy for tonight, that’s the plan, got it?”

“Got it,” said Damen, and finished the drink, shoving the glass onto the corner of someone else’s crowded table. “I’m getting the next round.”

The next round turned into the next three rounds, and Damen was developing a very nice buzz by the time a song he recognised finally came on. He dragged at Nikandros who flapped a hand at him, pointing towards the bathroom in a blatant attempt to get out of dancing with Damen.

_ Sweet dreams are made of this.. _

“Thought you wanted to make me happy?” yelled Damen, but let him go. He didn’t need a partner to dance with. He didn’t need a partner at all, he thought to himself, he was a lone wolf, out on the prowl, who didn’t need any cute blonde alongside him. Although now he came to think of it, Jokaste had never liked to dance with him either, preferring to stand by the wall and sip something in a tiny glass with a cherry in it.

Damen found himself in the midst of a crowd of women, mostly in pink. Probably a batchelorette night. He laughed as they nudged a short girl towards him and encouraged her to dance. She looked a little terrified, but seemed to warm up to him when he took her hands and shimmied to the rhythm. The other women screamed in delight as he took a turn with each of them, laughing and swinging their hips wildly. Damen couldn’t stop smiling. This was what he was here for - a good time.

“Everybody’s looking for something,” sang the woman he was dancing with, and he tipped his head back and laughed. He let her go and waved, and they all waved back, making disappointed faces as he struggled away from them, through the crowd, to the bar.

The bartender looked run off his feet, and Damen felt a little sorry for him, deciding to order a rum and coke instead of something off the cocktail menu. He got a grateful smile in return, and as he stuffed the change from the ten-dollar note back into his jeans pocket, he wondered what it’d be like to work in a place like this. Sure, you’d get the occasional asshole, and maybe it’d be less fun to serve a batchelorette party than it was to dance with them, but you also got to look at a lot of pretty people. Like...

Damen realised he had subconsciously picked out the most blonde head of hair he could and was staring into a pair of very blue eyes. Pale eyebrows arched expressively. Damen blinked, then grinned at the man, raising the plastic cup of rum and coke in a salute. He got a further arch of a brow, and an eye roll. Success, probably.

He was almost about to move on when he realised that the man was being crowded hard into a corner, and looking none too happy about it. For a moment, his blue eyes were hidden from Damen’s view by a huge, sweaty back, and Damen could see the blond take a tiny step backwards, crushing himself even further into the corner in an attempt to escape. Damen looked at the rum and coke in his hand, and then back up at the blond, who was once more attempting to extricate himself from having to interact with his unwanted suitor.

Damen caught his eyes for a second time, and nodded towards the huge man, who had just placed a hand on the wall next to the blond’s shoulder, trapping him. “You okay?” Damen mouthed. The blond looked almost startled, then the cool look came back over his pretty face. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, lips thinning. Damen nodded, and pulled away from the bar. The last thing he saw of the blond was his wide eyes trailing after him.

“Ladies!” said Damen jovially, clasping the shoulder of the shy girl he’d danced with earlier. “Can I borrow your friend here, for like, one minute?”

“Surely you can last longer than that,” came the predictable response, but his requested bachelorette-party-goer was more than willing to follow him over to the side of the room, although Damen felt she might have been a little disappointed by his request.

“So, Sasha, right? You’re the designated driver,” he said, pointing at her wristband. He’d noticed it when they’d danced together, and while he’d only felt a little sorry for her at the time, he was glad of it now. “That means you’re sober, which means you’re trustworthy. Can you go get a bouncer for me?”

“Uh,” said Sasha, looking a little uncertain. “Yes..? Why?”

“Because,” said Damen, tilting his head, “I might be about to start a fight.”

 


	2. sasha u da real mvp

Once the whole thing was explained, Sasha was more than happy to help. Damen made his way back to the bar where he’d seen the blond, the whole thing having taken a little less than five minutes, and was not surprised to see that he was still there, and still looking very irritated. Sweat Mountain was, if possible, even closer than before. 

From the corner of his eye, he spotted Sasha giving him a thumbs up, her bright pink dress a beacon. He moved closer and closer to the corner, doing his best to look like he was simply being carried there by the movements of the crowd. His rum and coke was sloshing in its plastic cup, and as he got into the right position, the song changed once again to one he knew.

_ I need a hero! _

“I love this song!” yelled Damen to the nearest person, and gestured expansively with his hands. Forgetting, of course, that he held a drink. Yes. Definitely forgetting. Those years of acting classes had really paid off, he thought, as he ‘accidentally’ poured three quarters of a cup of icy cold rum and coke all down a sweaty white shirt. If only his teacher could see him now, he’d have gotten the role of Romeo in the big play for sure.

“What the fuck!” said Sweat Mountain, turning and pinpointing Damen immediately. This wasn’t hard, as Damen was busily leaning into him, apologising profusely.

“Holy shit, dude, I’m so sorry, haha, fuck! I’m  _ so _ sorry, my guy, these things just happen sometimes, you know?”

From behind Sweat Mountain Damen spotted a glimpse of pale hair and paler skin, catching the club lighting and glowing blue. Did the man mouth thanks, or was that just the strobe lighting? He wished he could follow him.

“You know what else  _ just happens? _ ” grunted Sweat Mountain, and punched Damen hard in the stomach. Damen doubled over, and to his shock, dropped to his knees. He’d not been hit like that for years - usually he was well aware of what he was getting into when he started a fight, but he’d never been quite stupid enough to start one when he wasn’t sober.

“Damen!”

He was hauled to his feet, and felt an immediate surge of good feeling towards Nikandros.

“I love you, man,” he said, and Nikandros swore creatively.

“How fucking drunk did you get when I left you to dance? I was gone for two songs, tops!”

“I didn’t even drink anything else,” said Damen defensively. “I spilled my whole drink on this guy!”

He pointed with his thumb at where Sweat Mountain was being manhandled by three bouncers. To his left, he spotted a flash of pink and turned to wave at Sasha and the rest of the batchelorette group. Nikandros snorted.

“Did you have fun dancing with all those women who’re like, ten years older than you, at  _ least,” _ he said, steering Damen out the door as quickly as possible.

“I like them mature,” Damen said, exchanging his crumpled cloakroom ticket for his heavy leather jacket.

“So the exact opposite of you, then.”

“Hey, I can be mature!”

“You literally got into a fight when I left you alone for five minutes, Damen. You’re a toddler.”

The cold night air was refreshing against Damen’s overheated face and body. He leaned against the wall of the nightclub, feeling the music inside reverberating against his back.

“The reception here’s shit,” said Nikandros, fiddling with his phone. He looked up and caught sight of a parking attendant. “Hey, man, where’s the nearest taxi rank?”

“Miles away. But the reception’s better once you get out of this area. Even just up the road, I usually get signal. Dunno why.”

“Cool, thanks. Damen, I’ll be right back. Try not to puke.”

“Fuck you,” said Damen, yawning, and Nikandros flipped him off as he walked off.

“He’s holding his goddamn phone like Simba from the Lion King,” said Damen to himself, shaking his head. “God.”

His stomach throbbed, and he angled himself towards the lights to get a better look. Peeling up his shirt, he hissed through his teeth at the angry red mark that was already there.

“Ice,” came a voice, “and if you start to piss blood, then go to the hospital. Govart looks like a brick wall, and hits like one too.”

“Excuse me,” said Damen incredulously, “but who the fuck are you?”

From the darkness of the alleyway stepped the blond. His dark blue shirt made his pale skin stand out starkly in the weird blue of the LED streetlight, and his eyes looked brighter than they had in the club. Damen stood up straighter, tugging his shirt back down over his stomach, noting the slight flicker of disappointment as he did so.

“I owe you my thanks,” said the man, extending his hand. The fingers were long and graceful, and Damen’s hand engulfed the other man’s palm entirely. They shook.

“My pleasure,” said Damen, “you looked a little stressed. Anything I can do to help, you know? I just love saving, uh. Damsels in distress. Whatever the male version of a damsel is. A damsol?”

“Close,” said the man. He looked half like he was regretting talking to Damen, and half like he was considering taking notes on how stupid Damen sounded for some kind of research project. “Damsel comes from an old French word,  _ damoiselle _ . The male equivalent would be  _ damoiseau _ . So, damsol would be a decent modern approximation, I suppose.”

“Are you the world’s most beautiful French expert, or something?” said Damen, despairingly, leaning against the wall once more and letting his head fall forward to his chest. Listening to this living work of art speak French was doing things to him.

“No,” said mystery model French expert, “but I do spend time in France. I grew up there, and my family has a holiday home in Lille.”

“Ours is in Greece,” said Damen. “Nice to meet someone else who has a holiday home. My friends all think my family’s weird.”

“My family is weird,” said the model, “so maybe your friends are right.  Your friend’s coming back, by the way.”

“He wants us to go back to the hotel,” said Damen, checking the time on his phone. Just past eleven. “Not sure I’m ready to go, though.”

“The night is young,” agreed the other man, watching Nikandros stride down the road towards them.

“No taxis,” said Nikandros, panting a little. “I’m going up to the main strip to see if I can flag one down. Who’s this?”

Damen looked at the blond and tilted his head. 

“A friend,” he said. 

“Friends,” said the blond. “Is that what we are?”

Nikandros sighed. “You’re staying out, then,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“You know me well,” said Damen, and clapped Nikandros on the shoulder. “This club was shit anyway. Let’s find somewhere better.”

“You’ve already been punched once tonight,” said Nikandros, with the tone of someone who expected that it would not stay that way.

“I doubt Govart will be out of his jail cell anytime this evening,” said the nameless blond. “I know where we can go. Come on.”

Damen started after him, but was caught by the sleeve. He turned to face Nikandros, who was looking a little ill.

“Against my better judgement,” he said, “I’m going back to the hotel. I drank too much, too fast. Those things with the umbrellas-”

“You had one, too?” said Damen, half delighted, half disgusted. “Couldn’t you tell by my face it was bad?”

“I had two,” said Nikandros, “and I drank one of them REALLY fast when I realised that you were about to get the crap beaten out of you. I thought I might need the empty glass to smack him over the head.”

“You’re a true hero,” said Damen. “Go back to the hotel. I’ll see you later. If I don’t come home for any reason, tell my dad I died honourably.”

“I’ll tell him you took a punch like a champion, and absolutely didn’t fall to your knees in pain,” said Nikandros. They parted ways.

“Your friend is pretty protective,” said the blond as they made their way down a side street. “He glared at me, as if he was expecting me to whip out a knife and stab you.”

“Yeah, he does that,” said Damen. “He likes to look after me. The only reason he’s not coming with us is because he’s overdone it.”

“That was quick.”

“Yeah. The plan was that we were both gonna go out to get utterly trashed, but it’s been awhile since we both went out together, so maybe he’s not used to it any more.”

“You planned to get so drunk?”

He sounded a little disgusted. Damen shrugged.

“Yeah. Kind of in celebration, kind of in mourning. I, uh. Broke up with my girlfriend of five years a month ago. This trip was to cheer me up.”

“In here,” said the blond, and pushed open a tiny door that Damen barely managed to squeeze through. He went down the set of narrow stairs, the blond at his back, and came into what looked like a tiny library.

“Uh,” said Damen. The blond stepped past him and tugged at the bookcase, which slid aside. From the opening wafted the smell of… popcorn?


	3. panda & sons, purveyors of fine cocktails and REALLY good popcorn

“Go on, then,” said the blond, and pushed Damen gently. Damen stepped inside and was directed to a table. A basket of what was indeed popcorn was slid onto the table and a menu was placed into his hands. Then he and the blond were left alone.

“It’s less busy here than I thought it’d be,” said the blond. “I’m surprised. The drinks here are expensive, but worth it.”

“Plus, free popcorn,” said Damen, and took a handful. It was pleasantly salty, and a little spicy too, which was unusual but not bad. The blond nodded and flipped through the menu, although he put it down too fast to have read it all. Damen raised his eyebrows and nodded at him.

“That was fast.”

“I’ve been here before. I already know what I want.”

He flagged down the waiter and ordered something called an [Amor Joven](https://scontent.flhr4-2.fna.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/22788850_760323124151790_1294169193218558576_n.jpg?oh=609125aa6606fc3ee977a3d1193e2e6c&oe=5ACC50C8), and Damen hurried to choose his own.

“Uh,” he says, scanning the first page. “I’ll have a [Russian Spring Punch](https://www.davidhartung.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/09/dh_2017_04_MHD_Angus_0244.jpg), please.” The waiter nodded and vanished off behind the bar.

“I would have thought you’d have been sick of punches, considering your night so far,” said the blond, and it took Damen a moment before he caught on. He shook his head, but couldn’t help smiling.

“You know, I only just met you, but you don’t seem like the type to tell bad puns.”

The blond took a piece of popcorn, tossing it into his mouth.

“I’m not,” he said, muffled, “usually. I am, however, spectacularly drunk. I’m a mess.”

He sounded almost pleased. Damen took another look at him, trying to focus properly. Blue shirt, still looking relatively crisp. Black trousers, tight fitting, with a shiny silver belt buckle at the waist. Polished leather shoes. The man was wearing cufflinks, for god’s sake.

“I think I looked less put together at my graduation than you do right now,” he said, for lack of anything else to say. “You don’t look drunk. You look like you’re about to get married.”

“God forbid,” said the man.

A waitress came by and placed a tall glass of something pink in front of Damen, and a small wine glass full of something that was pale and creamy-orange in front of the blond. The rim was dusted in something crystalline.

“Is that cinnamon sugar?” said Damen, watching him take a sip.

“Paprika salt,” he said, and then smiled, catlike, at Damen’s disgusted expression. Damen took a mouthful of his own drink, and made a surprised noise of pleasure. The sharpness of the lemon juice against the sweetness of the cassis, plus the sparkles of the Champagne…

“It’s really good,” he said, “the best drink I’ve had tonight. Not that that’d be hard.”

“No,” said the blond, and Damen took another mouthful of his drink before finally working up the courage to actually ask the question he’d been thinking of for the past half an hour.

“So,” he said, aiming for nonchalant but probably hitting somewhere around oddly suspicious, “what’s your name?”

The blond raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow.

“Took you long enough,” he said. “Aren’t you going to give me yours, first?”

“Damianos,” said Damen, quickly. Probably too quickly. “Damianos Akielos. Damen, for short.”

The blond didn’t say anything, but took another sip of his drink, clearly enjoying Damen’s full attention.

“Well,” he said, eventually, “I’m pleased to meet you, Damianos Akielos.”

“Likewise,” said Damen, and then when nothing more seemed to be happening, he continued, “and you are…?”

“Ah, yes.”

Damen had to force himself not to sit forward in his seat.

“My name is Laurent. Laurent DeVere.”

“You have a lovely name,” said Damen, and then immediately drank to stop any more stupidly truthful things coming out. The ice had melted a little, and the cassis had risen from the bottom to mix a little more. It was sweeter than it had been previously.

“It’s _really_ good,” he said.

“Better than the stuff you were drinking before,” said Laurent, “at that dive.”

“It wasn’t a dive,” protested Damen, putting down his drink. “It was just a club. Haven’t you ever been in a nightclub before?”

Laurent shrugged, and took a sip of his own drink. Paprika salt was smudged at the edge of his mouth. Damen thought about brushing it off with a fingertip, or perhaps removing it some other way, but even with the buzz he was getting, he felt like it wouldn’t be welcomed.

“You’ve got a little..” he said, and indicated on his own mouth. Laurent’s eyes followed his finger, and Damen watched as his pink tongue flicked out to clear the mark away. He wet his own lips in response, automatically, and Laurent smirked at him, then set his glass down.

“I need to piss,” he said, and stood. For a moment he looked down at Damen, tall and somehow unreachable. Then his knees buckled a little, and Damen had to stand up to brace him before he fell.

“Hmm,” said Laurent, as Damen’s heartrate began to return to normal. “Strange. I didn’t think that... Well. Nevermind. Let me try again.”

“Right,” said Damen, still not letting go. “Sure.”

“I just wasn’t expecting it. I’m fine.”

Reluctantly, Damen let go of one hold, his hand releasing Laurent’s elbow, the other still braced at his slim waist.

“See?” said Laurent, who did indeed seem to be more stable. He looked up at Damen. This had the effect of placing their faces in very close proximity. Damen could smell whatever Laurent had used to style his hair, or perhaps it was perfume.

 _Don’t say ‘you smell nice’, that’s a creepy weirdo thing to say. Just. Let him go. Step back, stop gazing at his unfairly nice eyes. For the love of god you are_ **_in public-_ **

Damen let go. He stepped back. He told himself that the disappointed look on Laurent’s face was just his imagination.

“You sure you’re alright?” he said.

“I won’t need your help to urinate, if that’s what you mean,” said Laurent, and he left. Damen sat back down and tried to figure out what he was doing. Was he trying to get laid? No, they were both too drunk for that. Was he just looking to hang out? Did he want this to go further? He didn’t know, and all this thinking on a drunk brain was giving him a headache.

He checked his phone, looking for a distraction. A text from Nikandros ( _made it back to the hotel ok. PLS let me know if ur not coming back_ ), a text from his father ( _Will you please RSVP to your aunt’s wedding invite. She has sent me three facebook messages asking about it. I hate facebook. She wants to know who you are bringing, if not Jokaste. She needs to know. Please get her off my back._ ), several texts from his aunt (‘ _damianos if you dont rsvp to let me know who you are bringing then I will seat you next to kastor.’ - ‘do not test me.’ - ‘nikandros doesn’t count, he has his own invite’ - ‘which btw he has already replied to! because hes a good boy!’_ ), and a Facebook poke from Erasmus. He sent a poke back, and sighed.

“Bored without me?”

Laurent settled himself back into his seat, looking somehow more disheveled than before. His shirt was damp at the wrists and neck, where he had clearly splashed water on his face. At his throat, visible through the unbuttoned neck of the shirt, a bead of water sat. Damen closed his eyes and focused on not doing anything stupid.

“Want to go to a wedding with me?” he said instead, and heard Laurent cough a little. He opened his eyes and watched him gather himself.

“Sure,” said Laurent, “of course. Absolutely.”

“Cool,” he said. “My aunt’ll be pleased. She’s been waiting for me to RSVP with who I’m bringing.”

“Will she be pleased it’s some drunk you picked up at a bar?”

“She doesn’t care. Just wants to know I’m bringing someone. Uh, why _are_ you so drunk, by the way?”

Laurent let his head rest against the tall back of his chair. The bead of water was slowly sliding down over his collarbone. Damen drained his drink, feeling the ice clink against his teeth. _Just because his eyes are closed doesn’t mean it’s okay to stare._

“I won a court case today. Isn’t this what people do when they win court cases? I- I just thought maybe I ought to at least try to celebrate, but I’m afraid I’m not very good at having fun.”

He sounded rather melancholy. Damen wished he could hug him. Would that be okay? Probably not. Instead, he reached out and touched the back of the pale hand that rested on the arm of the chair. Somehow he was surprised it was so warm. Laurent looked like he was made of marble.

“I’m here with you, and I’m having fun. Another?” he said, and grabbed the menu. Laurent put down his empty glass and nodded. Together they leaned forward, heads brushing a little, and looked for the highest alcohol content.


	4. every hangover i've ever had

Damen woke with his face pressed into someone’s hair. It smelled faintly sweet, and also of cigarette smoke. His hand rested on a smooth chest, and he nuzzled a little closer. The man he cradled gave a little pleasured sigh, and then a high pitched yelp that pierced Damen’s head like a javelin.

“Oh my god,” said Damen, and then wished he hadn’t spoken. Was it possible for your own voice to echo in your skull? Was that a thing that could happen? He rolled over, curling into a foetal position.

“Shhhhh,” said his bed-partner, sounding equally miserable, “sssssssshut up. Just. Don’t.”

Damen didn’t. Nearby, someone was playing music - some kind of tinkly piano stuff. He considered getting up to pay them money to stop, then decided that no, getting up was not an acceptable solution to this problem. He dragged a pillow over his head instead, and went back to sleep.

Not long after, he was woken again by the sound of a pipe organ. It was playing something very familiar.

“Good god,” came the other voice again, muffled, like they were speaking into the mattress. “Is someone getting married? Why the fuck is someone getting married so close by.”

“Nngh,” said Damen. He really needed to get up and pee, and also to never move in case his head fell off.

“I think I might be dying,” said his companion. The bed shifted as he got up, and after a moment Damen heard vomiting, and then a little whimper.

He rolled over onto his back and swallowed. He didn’t usually feel queasy when he was hungover, but his body was definitely thinking about it. From the bathroom came noises of running water and someone swish-and-spitting, and then the sound of bare feet on tile. The bed creaked slightly as the man sat. Damen opened his eyes and looked at him.

“How can you still look so nice after throwing up?” he said. “That’s - that’s unfair. I haven’t puked, and you still look better than me.”

The man - Laurent. That was his name. Right? - looked at him. His icy blue eyes trailed from Damen’s probably-spectacular bedhead, down his chest and stomach where a beautiful purple bruise had formed, past the sheet that was tucked over his waist, down to where his feet (one with a sock, one without) poked out at the end of the bed, which for some reason was oddly short.

“You look… fine,” Laurent said. “You- oh. Oh my god.”

He reached over and tweaked the sheets a little lower. There, on Damen’s hipbone, was a spectacular lovebite.

“And there, too,” said Laurent, looking horrified and fascinated in equal measure, pointing at Damen’s throat. “And there, under your ear, and there, on your chest. Oh my god. Do you think… did- did we-”

He gestured, wordless. Damen considered him. He was only wearing boxers, and for some reason his shirt, which was fully open apart from the last button. He had a little beard rash on his shoulder where Damen’s face had rubbed against him while he slept. He looked... soft.

“Don’t think so,” said Damen, covering his eyes with one hand. All this talking was really draining him.

“You don’t think so? You’re lying in a heart shaped bed! There are flower petals on the floor - there’s a fucking basket of lube and condoms on the bedside table. I would like to be more certain of what we did or did not do,” said Laurent, who was looking increasingly frazzled with every word.

“Pretty sure,” said Damen. “Two reasons. No, three. First, I think you’d know if we’d, you know, gone all the way. Not to brag, but you’d be able to tell.”

Laurent made a disgusted noise.

“Second..”

Damen dragged the sheets off himself, onto the floor. A little puff of rose petals flew sadly across the tiles.

“I’m relatively sure that if we’d done anything, I would not have put my jeans back on afterwards. And I sure as hell wouldn’t have put my belt back on - this thing is uncomfortable enough to wear, sleeping in it is not something I’d consciously do.”

Laurent gazed at his denim-clad legs. Or, more accurately, at his denim-clad crotch, shiny belt buckle and all. Damen wiggled at him, and snorted as his gaze darted away.

“Third?” said Laurent, standing up and moving away from the bed. “Also, can you see my trousers?”

“Trousers,” said Damen, delighted. “You mean pants?”

“I grew up in France and learned English from an actual British person. It’s not my fault I speak a purer language. Now- my trousers?”

“There, I think,” said Damen, pointing under a chair, and watching absently as Laurent bent to retrieve them.  _ Wow. Nice. _

“Uh,” he said, distracted. “Right. Three reasons. Third, I don’t like to sleep with people when I’m drunk. Or when they’re drunk. When either of us is impaired in any way. It’s… gross.”

The room was silent for a moment. He propped himself up to look at Laurent, who was holding his jeans and looking contemplative.

“Do you want to get lunch?” he said.

“God, no,” said Damen. “I could do coffee, though. Let me find my shirt.”

“Is this your phone?” said Laurent, tossing it at him. “It’s got like, 50 texts.”

“Oh fuck,” said Damen, fumbling the catch a little, “Nikandros.”

**8% battery** , proclaimed his phone cheerfully.  **Plug in your phone charger!**

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

Most of the texts were indeed from Nikandros, although several were from his aunt ( _can't wait to meet him!_ read the newest one. Damen decided to ignore them for now. He had enough to worry about.) The timestamps on Nikandros' texts ranged from the previous night, shortly after one am ( _ this hotel tv has the weirdest fucking ‘mood section’ its just themed pictures set to music??? who tf would use this _ ) to one at about four am ( _ damen what the fuck is going on are u coming back or not? _ ) to one at eight am ( _ damen i swear to god pls txt me when u get this _ ) and then another at ten ( _ damen please i dont want to have to contact the police. if i have to give a description of you and the dude that you met last night itll just be “big tall brown dude with a punchable face and some dude who looks like the brother of elsa from frozen, or maybe rapunzel from tangled, he looks like a male disney princess, please god find my friend” do u really want me to embarrass myself like that??? really??? _ )

It was a quarter past eleven. Damen texted Nikandros guiltily ( _ im fine oh my god im sorry!! sorry! i am sorry for real i just got really drunk and forgot to text you i swear im okay. my phones nearly out of charge, i will come back to the hotel by 2pm latest, im gonna get coffee and try to remember what happened last night. disney prince is still here. loving ur movie references btw. hes more of a cinderella-brother if u ask me. hairs the same. _ )

“You look like you’re writing a novel over there,” commented Laurent. He was busy trying to fasten the tiny buttons on his shirt, but his hands were shaking, probably from the hangover. Damen watched as he tried and failed for the third time to get one of the buttons through the corresponding hole.

“C’mere,” he said, and sat up, swinging his legs round to rest his feet on the cool tile. Laurent approached warily.

“Let me just-”

He reached out, and Laurent took a half-step back.

“I’m not letting you tumble me back into bed,” he said. Damen blinked.

“I wasn’t going to. I just want to do up your buttons. Can I help you?”

Slowly, he reached up again, and one by one, bottom to top, his steady hands buttoned the shirt. With every button, Laurent swayed a little closer. Damen looked up at him as he coaxed the final button into place, leaving only the one at the very top undone. He reached carefully round to fold the collar back into shape, and then tugged at the bottom seam of the shirt to make it lie properly.

“You’d make a wonderful valet,” said Laurent, and promptly bit his lip. Damen grinned at him.

“You say so, but I’m terrible at ironing things. You’d regret hiring me in an instant.”

“I’m sure,” said Laurent, “that you’d make up for it somehow. Coffee?”

“Sure.”

They remained close for a moment. Damen had the sudden urge to let his head fall forward onto Laurent’s chest. Would it smell as nice as he thought? Would Laurent push him away or reach up and hold him there?

Luckily, before he could go completely insane, Laurent backed off, going in search of socks and shoes, or at least shoes. Damen levered himself off the bed and made for the bathroom.

“This room is offensively pink,” he said.

“Don’t talk to me while you’re pissing.”

“I had to listen to you vomit. Don’t act all high and mighty now.”

“Of course. I can only find one of your shoes, by the way. Oh - no, wait. One’s in a drawer. Why would we have put your shoe in a drawer?”

“How’d you even know it was there?”

Damen rubbed a wet hand over his face. His hair was unsalvageable.

“The laces were hanging out. Here.”

His shoes were tossed through the door, followed shortly by the one sock he was missing.

“Great,” he said. “Now all I need is coffee.”

“Google maps says we’re just off the main strip. So, if we leave here, turn right, then two blocks down there’s a cafe that has good reviews..”

They left the hotel. The receptionist smiled at them and waved, which was a little weird, but friendly enough. The cafe was close by, and the coffee was good. Damen relaxed back into the armchair. His day was looking up.

This, of course, was not a lasting state of affairs.

“Are you fucking  _ married? _ ” said Laurent, staring at Damen’s ring finger. “You said you broke up with your girlfriend, not your  _ wife. _ ”

“I am  _ not _ married,” said Damen, nearly knocking over his coffee in his haste to inspect his hand. The ring was plain, but definitely looked like a wedding ring. “Oh fuck. What the fuck.”

“Yes,” said Laurent, gazing at his own hand, where an identical ring caught the light. “Yes, that just about covers it. I think, possibly, we may have made a mistake.”


	5. its super not legal lol shh this is a fantasy

It didn’t take long to track down the tiny chapel they’d gotten married in, as it was attached to the hotel they’d slept in, but he was running out of time. He’d promised Nikandros he’d be back by two, and it was quarter past one already. Damen called a pair of taxis, then sat with his head in his hands in the pew, listening to Laurent berate one of the officiants, who looked like she was almost enjoying it.

“This can’t be legal! In what world can someone who was clearly as drunk as we were get married?”

“You signed,” said the woman, pointing at their signatures for the third time. “You provided ID. You did everything needed. There’s no rule that says you have to be sober for your marriage.”

“There should be!” said Laurent. “This should be illegal!”

“Well, it’s not. You want a divorce licence or something? Cause the place is closed today - there was a flood this morning, some idiot left a tap running or something. It’ll be open tomorrow, probably. You can both go there and get this sorted out then, you’ll be fine.”

“I fly out at ten tonight,” said Laurent through gritted teeth. “To my home, many miles away from here.”

“Well,” said the officiant, who Damen felt should be chewing gum obnoxiously - she seemed like that kind of person, “you can always do the year-and-a-day thing.”

Damen was relatively sure he could hear Laurent’s teeth grinding.

“Go on,” he said tightly.

“Like, live apart for a year and a day. It might not be a year and a day, actually, but like… if you live apart long enough you can get an annulment.”

“Great,” said Damen. “We don’t live together. We can do that. Simple.”

“Simple,” said Laurent, pale cheeks flushing slightly. “Yes. Simple. God forbid we put any effort in-”

“I just mean,” said Damen, “that this way, we don’t have to do anything that involves anything particularly legal. When you get divorced, don’t you need like, lawyers? An annulment is fine. Living apart is fine. Let’s just… leave this place. Before you set it on fire with the force of your glare.”

“Fine,” said Laurent. As they left, the officiant handed Damen a pair of square packets.

“That’s your documentation and the recording of your wedding. You paid extra for it,” she said. “But you left last night before we could give it to you. Congrats on your happy marriage!”

Damen made a face at her and steered Laurent out into the street, where they stood for a moment, looking a little dazed. 

“So,” he said. 

“Yes,” said Laurent.

“I should probably…” 

“Yes,” said Laurent. He stared into the middle distance, refusing to make eye contact. Damen could see the top of his phone from where it poked out of the back pocket of his jeans. He took it.

“You’ll get pickpocketed,” he said, and dialled his own number. His phone vibrated once in his back pocket, then made a sad noise.

“Fuck. I think it’s dead.”

“Shame.” Laurent twitched his phone out of Damen’s slackening fingers. “Don’t take my things.”

“Hey, what’s yours is mine, right? That’s marriage.”

“Don’t joke about that,” said Laurent. “This really isn’t ideal for me right now. If anyone finds out about this.. My family is vicious. I don’t know what they’d do.”

“Who’s gonna know?” said Damen. “I might not even tell Nikandros. No, actually, that’s a lie. I’ll definitely tell Nikandros. But probably not anyone else. You don’t need to tell anyone. Just keep in touch with me, okay? And we can arrange the, uh. Annulment. Probably just some basic paperwork we can do online or something. There’s a hundred reasons for us to not be married, it won’t be hard to get it annulled.”

“Right,” said Laurent.

“I’ve got your number now anyway,” said Damen. “I’ll message you.”

“Right.”

“Uh. I’m gonna go back to my hotel now, and pack up. We’re leaving tomorrow morning.”

“Right.”

Damen wavered. Laurent looked like marble again. Not at all like he had when Damen had done up his shirt. Not at all like he had when he’d played find-the-hickey on Damen’s body. When they’d swayed together in the moonlight outside the church, Damen’s hands carding through Laurent’s hair, bodies pressed together so close Damen hadn’t been able to tell whose heartbeat he could feel vibrating in his chest…

“Did we dance here?” he said. “At like, five am? There was music playing, something electronic or something. You took out your ponytail and threw the band somewhere over there..”

“I did?” said Laurent skeptically. He crossed the street and gave a little wordless exclamation, bending down. Damen fought the urge to whistle. The black jeans Laurent wore were very flattering.

“It’s here?” said Laurent. He showed Damen the little black band.

“Told you.”

Laurent had an odd half smile on his face. 

“I thought you were joking about us dancing. I don’t remember anything from last night at all.”

Damen shrugged.

“Neither do I, really. It just came back to me all of a sudden. Maybe you’ll remember more of it as you, uh.. Recover.”

“I’m recovered, I assure you.”

“Really? Because even in the blue lights of the club you weren’t as pale as you are now.”

Laurent rolled his eyes, then reached out to Damen, who half expected him to hold his hand. Instead he dropped the hair tie into it.

“Fix my hair for me,” he said.

“Um," said Damen. “Okay?”

Laurent turned his back. His hair was just long enough to brush the bottom of his shoulder blades, golden blonde and slightly wavy, although that might just have been because he’d only been able to brush it by running his fingers through it that morning. Damen half expected it to feel tangled, but it was silk-smooth in his hands.

“The last time I did anyone’s hair, it was my youngest cousin,” he said, deciding to push his luck. “Come sit down by the fountain, I want it to look nice.”

“Just put it in a ponytail,” said Laurent, sounding like he was regretting his decision to leave his hair to Damen. “Really, it’s fine. In fact, this was- honestly. This was a stupid idea. Let me-”

“Nope,” said Damen, gently nudging Laurent onto the bench by the fountain. “Sit still. I still remember how to do this, I think.”

“Oh,  _ putain de merde.. _ ”

“I may not speak French as nicely as you do, but I do speak it,” Damen said. “Have a little faith.”

He fingercombed the golden strands back away from Laurent’s face, then separated pieces  and began to braid. For a few minutes the only thing he could hear was the soft music from the chapel, and Laurent’s soft breathing. He finished, tucking the ends in neatly, wishing he had bobby pins, then stood back and admired his work. Sure some strands were escaping, and the braids weren’t quite even, but it looked pretty good. 

“Done?” said Laurent. His tone was disinterested, but he betrayed himself by almost running to the nearest reflective window.

“Do you like it?” said Damen, following him, feeling foolish. “I can take it out-”

“No,” said Laurent.

“My cousin said it’s called a royal braid,” said Damen, “because it looks like-”

“A crown,” said Laurent.

They were silent for a moment. 

“It suits you,” said Damen.

“Fishtail braids?” said Laurent, catching his gaze in the reflection and holding it.

“A crown,” said Damen, and watched Laurent swallow.

“We probably kissed last night,” he said, and Damen took a moment to adjust to this new conversational route.

“Probably,” he said. “I don’t remember.”

“A shame.”

“I certainly think so,” said Damen evenly, trying not to get his hopes up. Laurent turned around.

“We keep doing this,” he said, motioning to the gap that was barely between them. “I don’t usually let people get so close.”

“I can step back, if you want me to,” said Damen. He was suddenly reminded of the huge man, Govart, crowding Laurent into the corner.

“No,” said Laurent. “No, I don’t think so.”

He curled his hand into the collar of Damen’s shirt. Damen felt his fingers brush against his collarbone, and wondered if Laurent could feel his heart thundering. They stood like that for a moment, and he watched a slow flush rise over Laurent’s cheeks as he muttered something. He tilted his head a little.

“What was that?”

“I said bend down, you giant animal,” snapped Laurent, and Damen watched delightedly as the pink spread to his ears. “Not all of us can be double the size of an ordinary person, you know. I put all my growth in my formative years into my brain, not my legs.”

“I didn’t  _ only _ grow my legs,” said Damen suggestively, and ducked as Laurent slapped at him.

“Disgusting.”

“Sorry,” he said, and looked up through his eyelashes at Laurent’s face. With his shoulders and neck ducked down, they were close enough to breathe the same air.

“Well,” said Laurent, “what are you waiting for?”

“Good question,” said Damen, and leaned in, bracing one hand on the wall. “May I now kiss the groom?”

“ _ Imbécile, _ ” Laurent breathed, and tipped his head, pressing his mouth to Damen’s.

It was some time before either of them moved away. Damen reluctantly stood up straight after the third time the taxi honked its horn, and couldn’t help running his thumb gently over Laurent’s bottom lip.

“So,” he said.

“Call me,” said Laurent.

“I will.”

He dragged himself into the taxi and watched as Laurent got into the other one he’d ordered. They pulled away in separate directions. Was Laurent also staring after Damen’s taxi like a lovestruck puppy? Probably not, Damen decided. But…

_ The look on his face after we kissed… I think he really liked it. And tonight he’s gonna get on a plane and fly to who knows where. And tomorrow I’m gonna fly home. And we’re probably never going to see each other again… _

“What is wrong with your fucking face, asshole,” said Nikandros, dragging him out of the taxi, tossing a twenty at the driver, “I’m the one who thought you’d ended the night in a fucking ditch somewhere, when instead you were out getting your dick wet-”

“I didn’t fuck him,” said Damen. He paused, and added, “We just got married, instead.”

“Hah, right. Well, the receptionist here thinks I’m a fucking crazy person. I kept asking her if she’d seen you, ‘cause I thought maybe you ended up in the wrong room like that other time-”

“That was once, and it’ll never happen again. Not after what happened with that girl’s dad. Never ever again.”

“Sure, you say that, but Drunk Damen is a law unto himself.”

“Sure is,” said Damen, and rubbed his thumb against the inside of the ring he still wore. Did Laurent still have his on? Had he thrown it away by now? Surely it was nothing but cheap gold-plated-copper rubbish, provided by the chapel they’d married at or maybe bought from a street vendor. But still…

“C’mon,” said Nikandros. “Let’s go up to our room. I’m still not feeling one-hundred percent.”

“Yeah,” said Damen. “Actually, I need to charge my phone.”

Remembering Laurent’s face, he couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

“I have... a really important call to make.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (he calls laurent as soon as his phone has any charge and laurent’s at the airport getting ready for his flight like “when i said call me i thought you’d at least wait until tomorrow to stop yourself from looking desperate” and damen’s like “do i look like the kind of person who has shame? bc i don’t”
> 
> of course they both decide to keep their rings, they end up wearing them round their necks on chains because the gold plating does indeed wear off and leave green marks on their fingers from the copper haha! I was gonna continue this to have them actually live in the same city but not know it and they meet again coincidentally and are like OMG YOU?? but i ran out of time and it was getting too long. safe to say that they do in fact stay married bc they keep making excuses like ‘its too much hassle to fill in the paperwork for the annulment’ and ‘being married means we can split taxes’ etc etc and eventually it’s their five year anniversary and theyre stupidly in love and everyones like ‘listen when are you gonna get married??’
> 
> and they have to sit their parents down and be like “so. we have… to tell u something..”
> 
> nikandros thought damen was joking all those years ago but nope! damen and laurent have Actually For Real been married this whole time. he’s so mad he almost refuses to be damens’ best man. almost. and nicaise is laurent’s best man,,, and, and… ahh ok im gonna stop lol but u can imagine, right?
> 
>  
> 
> oh, and the title is in reference to the hundred reasons they have to get the annulment.. And the one reason they have to stay married, which is that they are In Love. MERRY FUCKIN CHRISTMAS)


End file.
